


The Blue and the Grey

by fawatson



Series: ITOWverse:  The Lost Man Booker Prize [1]
Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Gen, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Interviewer comes to chat with Alexander the Great when <i>Fire from Heaven</i> is short-listed for the Lost Man Booker Prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blue and the Grey

It was a lovely spring day, sunny and warm—far nicer than the blustery cold and rainy weather the Interviewer had left behind in New York.  (They always seemed to have the most fortuitous weather at the clubhouse.)  As she walked up the steps to the front door, she smiled at young Charis and Alexander who were playing with Peritas on the porch.  The door opened to her knock, and she smiled at Bagoas, who looked enquiringly back at her. 

“I’m here to interview Alexander.”

“Yes?”

“About his book and the prize—I mean, the _nomination_ , for the Lost Man Booker award.” 

Still he stood in the doorway, blocking her entrance.  The Interviewer sighed inwardly; she and he and had got off to a very _difficult_ start two years ago.  She might have thought that by now....

“Who is it Bagoas?”  The Secretary’s pleasant voice came from behind the little eunuch, and her head popped from behind him.  “Ah! You’ve arrived!” she remarked (somewhat redundantly).  “Yes, let her in, Bagoas; she has been invited.” 

Reluctance evident in every gesture, Bagoas nonetheless opened the door wide, bowed gracefully, and stepped back to let her enter. 

The house was revealed to be a hive of activity.  Olympias stood at the foot of the stairs, clipboard in hand, directing a small army of slaves.  Quickly, the Secretary led the Interviewer past her and down a corridor leading toward the back of the house. 

“You don’t want to get caught up in _that_ ,” she explained. 

“In what?” 

“Plans for the festivities, when—” The Secretary caught herself hastily, “ _if_ , that is....”

“No indeed.  I’ve been commissioned to interview the protagonists of all the nominated novels,” responded the Interviewer.  “I am supposed to be quite impartial, though of course....”  Her voice trailed off as she remembered the warm welcome she had received on her first visit to the clubhouse—and the distinct _lack_ of welcome from some characters last year.  Not to mention....  She looked round hastily.  “King Philip isn’t anywhere around, is he?”

The Secretary flung open a rear door, “Through here!”

The Interviewer stepped through warily onto the back porch.  (Surely this hadn’t been here last year?)  Arrayed on a wide plain behind the house were phalanxes bristling with spears, marching in precise patterns.  There appeared to be two sides, one carrying banners of blue—the other grey.  Beyond galloped the cavalry, led by Alexander on Boukephalos.

“My, my,” exclaimed the Interviewer, “I can’t say I found anything quite like this on my visits to any of the other books’ characters!  They seemed rather more ... erm ... laid back about their nominations.”

“Alexander didn’t win all those battles without being prepared, you know,” said the Secretary sagely. 

“What about those men?” asked the Interviewer, spotting a long queue of (it had to be said) rather _bored_ looking soldiers to one side of the porch. 

“Ah, _those_ are just waiting to vote.”

“Vote?” said the Interviewer wonderingly.

“For the book,” explained the Secretary.  “Our first idea was just to get Simonides to register all the votes himself, but after Plato decided that wasn’t ethical, we had to come up with Plan B.”

“Plan B...?”

“It’s meant _considerably_ more work.”  From her tart tone, it was clear the Secretary held little sympathy for the niceties of philosophical argument.  “None—absolutely _none_ —of those Macedonians even knows how to turn a computer on (and don’t even mention the _Persians_ ). 

“What do you mean?” 

“Listen,” the Secretary said, gesturing to her right.

Through a set of open French doors could be heard My_Cnnr as she patiently explained (yet again), “just move your cursor so it hovers over....”


End file.
